


Crash And Burn

by LoveThemFiercely



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: A-Wing, Another Good Name for This, Auzituck, Background mention of Reylo, Bonfires, Career Ending Injuries, Crash Landing, Don't Drink the Tree Sap, Drunkenness, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Insouciance, Kashyyyk, Not Everything Can Be Solved With A Blaster, O Captain!, Phasma's Lost An Eye, Phoe - Freeform, Phoes to Phriends, Pillowfort Rarepairs Challenge, Sharing a Bed, So Much Bacta, TIE Fighter, Terentatek, That's What I'm Calling Them, To...Something, Training, Web Weavers, maybe? - Freeform, noise - Freeform, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 07:05:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17462888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveThemFiercely/pseuds/LoveThemFiercely
Summary: Captain Poe Dameron has been sent to Kashyyyk to keep him out of trouble.  They don't know him very well, do they?  Captain Phasma has survived the fall, and the fire...more or less.  But she's not done crashing and burning.  He needs a sense of self-preservation.  She needs a sense of humor.  They need each other.





	Crash And Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Written for January's Pillowfort Rarepairs Challenge. Prompt: Kashyyyk Pair: Poe and Phasma Why? Because I was challenged to put them together in canon-verse and make it work.

She remembered the first time she'd seen him, in the flesh at any rate; when they'd taken him prisoner on Jakku.  He'd LOST, and it didn't seem to faze him at all. He had to have known what was coming; that Ren would tear his mind, and if necessary his body, apart trying to get what he wanted. But he'd been jovial, and unafraid; and inside the privacy of her armor, he'd made her laugh.

 

Phasma was baffled at that. She had two modes: warrior, with a battle-cry she'd been told shook the very soul; and obedient soldier, cool, trusted, and always thinking ahead within the framework of her chosen allegiance. She worked very hard to make sure that her primary loyalty--to herself--was invisible.  The First Order had been her driving goal in getting off her homeworld, and it was also the price. The other prices were in the past; necessary, but not to be recalled if she could help it. She’d done whatever she had to do to take care of herself.

 

The First Order, even if she hadn’t thought much of those above her, had given her what she craved: structure, command, and the chance to use her hard-won skills in service of the rage that had burned inside her all her life.  On the few occasions that she'd been defeated, she'd taken refuge in those things. The troopers had come to understand that if there’d been a loss, a few of them would be going to the medical bay after sparring with her. That was how she coped.  Bravado like Dameron's was not in her toolset, she knew.

 

And… she was human, under it all.  It had been hard not to notice that there was a fine-looking man in her custody.  That same man was looking at her now, where she hung caught in the straps of the pilot's seat, upside down and twisting.  There was no hatred or triumph in his eyes, as she was sure there would have been in hers; only compassion, and interest. Of course, he might not know who she was.

 

He stood under her, hands on his hips. "Hey there. This is a First Order ship, or what's left of it. Were you...uh, are you with them?"

 

"... Yes."  It was hard to talk. Crashing her ship and dangling upside down for who knew how long wasn't doing anything good for her mental processes. That armor was gone too.  

 

"That's all right. We can decide what to do about that later. Right now we need to get you down from there.  Will you promise not to fight me if I start working on that?" He smiled at her. Clearly he had no idea to whom he was speaking. But...

 

"I don't think I could. But...I make...no promises...about later." Her vision was uncertain, and there was a roaring in her ears. 

 

He laughed. It was a good laugh; low and surprised-sounding. "Fair enough. I'll watch my back. Do you know where you are?"

 

She did. When they'd pulled her, ruined armor and all, still smoking, from the pit she'd kept her remaining eye closed. But the bit of consciousness to which she'd stubbornly clung had been sufficient to hear that her career was over. 

 

_ She'll be in bacta for weeks...months, even.  And that eye isn't fixable. Find me someone to replace her as Captain; the troopers will need leadership. We'll...find something for her to do. _  Damn that ginger bastard.  Though she supposed he could simply have had her killed.  He might as well have; just maybe she wished he had. They were throwing away everything she'd worked so hard to win; and her, too. 

 

She'd climbed out of the bacta tank long before the healing was done and put on the robe waiting for her next to the tank; then stolen a ship, and chosen a planet from the Resistance allies, where no one would know her and she didn’t speak the language.  That ought to keep the First Order from trying to retrieve her for torture and execution, though she supposed the Resistance might very well do the same, if she were to be recognized. 

 

She had worried about Ren tearing the location from her mind, but there was very little she could do about that other than hope he was distracted by his own problems.  Radio chatter on the First Order’s encoded frequencies as she flew had informed her that wasn’t going to be a problem; while she was floating in bacta, the Supreme Leader had...defected. Could you defect from something if you were supposed to be leading it?  He’d never been terribly stable; still, it had completed the destruction of her world. She’d turned off the comm.

 

He was waiting for an answer, now looking concerned. "...Kashyyyk."

 

The concern ebbed a little when she answered. That was...odd.  "Okay. What's your name?"

 

There was no point in lying. This one had escaped with the traitor, the one who'd taken her eye and her chosen life; and HE would know her without her armor. Dameron's expression of polite inquiry swam in her vision; that was unacceptable.  She had to keep control. Control was everything. 

 

"...Phasma."  Control wasn't possible. To her horror, she saw tears fall from her eye onto his upturned face.  He blinked and swiped at his cheek before her body committed a last betrayal and there was nothing more.

 

…

 

Kriffing hell.  Captain sodding Phasma.  Poe ran a hand through his hair as he considered how utterly ludicrous this was.  When the call for assistance came from Kashyyyk, he’d been happy to help, even though he suspected he was being sent off to keep him out of trouble; he hadn’t been told when he should return.  He had not been expecting to find a TIE fighter stuck kilometers off the ground, wing wedged in the trunk of a wroshyr tree so enormous as to defy comprehension. 

 

It was big enough that he’d landed his own ship (well, the Auzituck he was borrowing for this) on the branch beneath.  And he would never have known who this was; he’d never seen her out of the armor and that chrome bucket she wore. She was now; and halfway out of the damn ship, too, viewport popped off and lost to the forest below.

 

Poe would certainly never have guessed that under all that, even after a crash-landing and dangling red-faced in her harness, that she’d be...beautiful.  The missing eye didn’t take away from that, not a bit. Oh, THAT was a colossally stupid thought. If this woman were up to her normal capabilities, she’d have him for breakfast.  He was no slouch with a blaster, but Phasma was legendary, a name to frighten children.

 

He thought, for a hot second, about just leaving her there.  No. If they’d met in a battle, he’d have cheerfully shot her without a second thought; but he wasn’t about to do it while she was unconscious, and truthfully he was burning with curiosity about how she’d ended up in this situation.  

 

And...things being what they were now, they were giving deserters from the First Order a lot of slack.  Lots of things had been happening; some of them good, some of them not as good in Poe’s opinion, all of them weird.  And it was important that they were better than the First Order; that was the point of all this, wasn’t it?

 

It was going to be hard to build something new, but if Ky-  If Ben Solo could be a part of what they were trying to do, anything was possible.  Poe didn’t think he’d ever get used to that. He’d better; the former Supreme Leader obviously loved Rey and he didn’t balk at much he was asked to do, but he did NOT react well to his...other name.  They’d lost a few pieces of equipment before they realized that. Poe guessed if he could accept...that, this shouldn’t be any more shocking.

 

But never mind that.  Now he had to figure out how to get her down from there. Okay.  He could probably climb up there, if he put some thought into it; but Poe didn’t think she was going to be any help getting down, not the way her eye had rolled back to nothing but white before it closed.  And assuming he could carry her at all, which was highly doubtful given that she was taller than K...dammit, Ben, there was no way he could climb down from there while he did. 

 

That left him with a risky idea almost wholly dependent on his accuracy with a blaster.  Best kind. If he wasn’t careful, he’d kill her; the thought of which bothered him more than he cared to admit.  Poe liked her threats in the face of her current position, and her refusal to conceal her identity. He understood.  That was how you kept yourself...yourself. Okay. First he had to maneuver the ship directly under her on the branch, and open the canopy.  Sadly, that was the easy part. The hard part, he thought, would be shooting the harness straps without blasting a hole in her too.

 

He was wrong.  The part he hadn’t thought through was that she’d land right on top of him.  Ow. It took Poe a few gulps and wheezes to get the breath back in his lungs, and a few more minutes to get her settled and belted into the co-pilot’s seat.  What the hell was she wearing? It left very little to the imagination. He was glad there was no one to see him blush like a damn teenager before he straightened things out so she was decently covered.  “Captain Phasma in a bathrobe” sounded like the punch line to a joke; but she was entitled to as much dignity and privacy as the next person, especially when there was nothing she could do about it. 

 

Well, bantha dung.  He was going to have to make some kind of shelter.  There was no way he was getting her into one of those Wookiee treehouses.  Just as well. If he was going to be up that high, it had better be in something he could fly.  Poe resigned himself to a long night. Clothes. Some of the Wookiees had clothes. He should see what they could find.  He was not going to tell them who she was, though. There was no telling what they’d do. Which meant Poe was about to lie his ass off to people known for tearing off limbs when they were angry.  Perfect. Just another day.

 

...

 

“...What, buddy?  She’s awake? Mostly?  Okay, hang on.” There was a rustling sound and the soft, musical voice came again.  “I dunno, BB, she doesn’t look awake to me. Heart rate, huh? Wait, how sensitive IS your audio?”  Quiet footsteps approached. Someone was touching her arm, distant, gentle, then her brow, brushing back the hair that had fallen across her eye.  That was better. Wait...it shouldn’t be long enough to do that. Her eyes...she should open them. She couldn’t plan, couldn’t control, what she couldn’t see.  Things should never be out of her control. That was her mandate, her life’s ambition. 

 

Opening her eyes was the hardest thing she’d ever done, Phasma thought.  And she’d done a lot of hard things. No...eye. Only one of them would open.  Right. The other was gone; a well of darkness across half the world. A black-and-tan blur resolved itself into a face.  A good one. She should know that face; a tumble of black curls, a firm jaw, and a smile that was tracing lines out from the corners of weary dark eyes.  But just now she couldn’t remember; so she just returned the smile. It felt strange, like something she didn’t do very often. Surely she was happy, sometimes?

 

“Well, hello there.”  A series of beeps. He...it was a man’s face...looked down at something she couldn’t see.  “Yeah, you were right; I just thought it would be a lot longer, considering.” He looked back at her.  “Good to see you’re with us again.” He looked tired. It was a familiar look. “What do you remember?”

 

Everything, as he spoke.  Dameron. Commander Poe Dameron.  Her mind filled in the way he’d looked last time, bloody and bruised, defiant and exhausted.  Phasma’s own story wove itself neatly back into place in her memory, a tapestry of self-interest and ambition, ending with fire and pain.  No, not ending. She’d looked after herself again. It was what she did best. No one else was ever going to do it for her, so she might as well.  The last threads came together. The crash. Kashyyyk. And Dameron, standing below her on the command-deck sized branch of an immense tree. The smile faded as she re-assumed her natural caution.  It was the only armor she had left.

 

“Most of it.  A crash-landing on Kashyyyk.  You...where am I? Am I a prisoner?”  The thought brought a brief spike of adrenaline, the urge to attack or to flee and come back when she was stronger.  She suppressed both impulses. Being a prisoner had rules she could understand. Prisoners had a path; interrogation, possibly torture, potential execution.  But a careful, patient prisoner had other paths. Sabotage. Negotiation. Resistance. Escape. Phasma was more patient than most would suppose, she knew. She could wait.  She could plan. Anything could be a weapon.

 

There was a whistle, a mechanical burble of sound.  A droid. “Yeah, buddy, I don’t doubt it. I would be too.”  He held both hands up as though surrendering, a placating gesture and shrug all in one.  “I guess? Technically? It’s just you and me and a planet full of Wookiees, so it’s kind of a moot point.  I don’t plan to restrain you or interrogate you right now, if that’s what you mean. That’s not really my area, anyway.  I’m not much of a big-picture guy, or so I’ve been told.” His jaw tightened for a moment with anger and hurt; apparently that wasn’t a pleasant thought.  He shook his head as though to ward off a memory. “For now, maybe we just start with…” he looked behind him, where she could see strangely weak, green sunlight, “...lunch?”

 

Food.  Kriff. Phasma was starving.  She’d had nothing for weeks beyond whatever concoction they must have pumped directly into her in the bacta tank, and the pitiful supply of ration bars she’d found in the TIE fighter.  She could smell...something. Roasted meat...no, fish. And fruit. Her mouth watered and her stomach growled. 

 

He chuckled.  “I’ll take that as a yes.  Can you sit up for me?” She could, but it wasn’t easy.  An involuntary noise of pain escaped her control. “Woah, okay, let me help?”  Her first instinct was to refuse. But she really was very hungry. She nodded, and he reached out to support her shoulders as she straightened.  “Um…” 

 

He reached behind her and pulled something close; a crate, which made a halfway decent backrest.  “Better?” She nodded again and was treated to another smile for her pains; his touch withdrew once she was settled.  She had mixed feelings about that. His hands were warm and gentle. It was confusing. Never mind. That wouldn’t help her take care of herself.

 

Now that she was sitting, Phasma took inventory of her surroundings.  It was some sort of...tent? Temporary shelter? Had he built it? It seemed like the sort of thing a pilot might build.  They never cared much about anything that didn’t fly. Still, it looked like it would keep out the weather. The beeps and whistles had indeed been a droid.  Oh. THE droid. The one they’d been after on Jakku, when they’d captured this same pilot. That made sense. It was his droid, wasn’t it? 

 

Dameron was handing her a plate.  That did not make any sense. Phasma didn’t understand her current situation, which made her uneasy.  Why wasn’t she restrained? Why was he feeding her lunch, for kriff’s sake? She’d just have to wait to see if she could spot the trap before it closed.  Until then, though, this smelled like paradise. Maybe he’d poison her. At the moment, she thought it might be worth it. No, that was silly. He could have just left her in the tree. Or shot her.  She dug into the food. 

 

“Hey, go slow; don’t make yourself sick.”  He was right. She forced herself to savor each small bite and look around between them.  There was a pallet to one side; they’d evidently been sharing this place. She could smell a campfire outside, and see a fishing pole leaning against the “wall”.  He’d caught this himself? Interesting. There were some clothes neatly folded next to her; some sort of coveralls. She could see his clothes in another neat pile near where he’d been sleeping, so…

 

“Are those for me?”  She was still wearing the entirely inadequate robe meant to allow her to get back to her quarters from medical, back on the  _ Supremacy _ .  

 

He scratched the back of his head.  “Yeah. I mean, Wookiees aren’t exactly into fashion, you know?  I was lucky somebody had those. I’d’ve given you some of mine, but…”  He waved a hand at himself and grinned. He was nicely built, in good shape, to be sure; but no, nothing of his would fit her.  Those coveralls, though; she might actually have to roll up the sleeves. That should be amusing. 

 

“Okay...so...how did you end up here?”

 

…

 

Poe knew this was not going to be an easy answer.  It was easy to pretend that there was nothing here except the two of them, but they both came with a lot of history; most of which involved mutually attempted destruction.  He could see all that history fill up her gaze as she’d looked at him, replacing an uncertain smile that had made him feel oddly warm. This was the woman who’d trained Finn, and it was only something about Finn himself that had led him down a different path.  She must have been thinking something similar.

 

“FN-2187, he…”

 

Poe shook his head. No.  She was not going to get away with that.  “His name’s Finn. I ought to know, I gave it to him.”

 

Phasma glared at him. “If you’re going to ask questions, don’t interrupt.”  She coughed, and stopped to drink some of the water he’d brought. She was wincing, as though her ribs pained her; he ought to see if the Wookiees had any bacta patches.  Though when she’d landed on him, the sharp scent of bacta had been everywhere, on her robe, in her hair. What had happened to her? He probably shouldn’t interrupt.

 

“Finn.  Satisfied?  We fought, on Supremacy.  And...I was defeated, my helmet cracked open, flung off the bridge to fall.  This…” She indicated her eye. “...had no protection from the flames. Between the fall, and the fire, I’ve spent weeks in a bacta tank.”  She looked down at her hands. “The First Order doesn’t have much use for broken tools.” Her eye snapped back up to him, gaze fierce. “I’m not broken!”  He believed her. Right now she looked like she’d like to tear someone open with her teeth. He didn’t doubt for a second that she could and would, present condition entirely beside the point.  “But that supercilious ginger ass Hux was already deciding to replace me before I’d even made it into the tank. I heard him. He said they’d  _ find _ me something to do.  As though I’d let them put me out to pasture.”

 

Poe couldn’t even imagine what that might look like.  He knew what had happened back there. Everyone he knew had been on the opposite side of the fight she was describing, and they’d assumed she was dead; but he’d known that before he asked.  So he said nothing, and waited to hear the rest. Her hair was exactly the same color as whisper-bird feathers back home. That was a very strange thought. A dangerous one.

 

“I climbed out of the tank, before I was meant to be finished, and stole a ship.  They weren’t bloody likely to chase me down here; and going down fighting while being dismembered by Wookiees seemed like a better end than whatever scraps Hux was going to throw me. I’m not a charity case.  I do for myself!” She looked down at the plate on her lap, and the clothes on the floor, and Poe could see her flush. Oh. That wasn’t charity. That was just...he still wasn’t sure what it was. He just hadn’t been able to make himself leave her there.

 

He didn’t like to see her look unsure of herself. It wasn’t right; it didn’t suit her.  What was wrong with him? So he grinned at her. “Oh, this? This is pure self-preservation.  I figure the nicer I am to you, the less likely you are to kill me later. You did say no promises.”  Poe felt himself flush. “And, ah, the Wookiees don’t actually know who you are. I told them you wouldn’t tell me your name.  Or that you couldn’t. I’m not sure which. Translating through BB-8 into Shryiiwook is...not an exact science.” He shrugged. 

 

She was looking at him like he’d just randomly metamorphosed into a Savrip.  “Why would you do that?” She waved around the tent’s interior with a calloused, elegant hand.  “Any of this? Why would you help me?” 

 

He had no idea.  “I don’t really know, honestly.  I was curious about how you got here, and I’m interested to know where you plan to go next.  I...we’re not fighting, here, you’re not with the First Order any more, I’m not sure how any of this works.  And…” this next bit was hard to say; but then, it must’ve been hard to admit that the First Order had planned to throw her away, as though she no longer had any value.  “This assignment, well, I’m here for any number of reasons.” 

 

…

 

Dameron looked distinctly uncomfortable.  “Look, I don’t always take orders well.” There was a shock.  He’d have never made it through Stormtrooper conditioning. “I should be with the Resistance leadership right now, but here I am, sitting in a corner of the galaxy so I can think about what I’ve done.”  He shook his head with a harsh sigh. “I get it. I do. But it’s hard, not to be trusted. It was just…it seemed like a good idea, to give somebody else the benefit of the doubt, to hear them out before I rushed to judgment. I don’t know.”  

 

He was scratching at the back of his head again; running his fingers through his hair was evidently a nervous habit.  Why would he be nervous? It wasn’t as though she could do...anything, really, right now. Phasma could feel the changes in her body, the loss of muscle tone and conditioning that weeks in bacta had wrought.  Her hair was longer than she would have expected. She wondered exactly how long it had been. That wasn’t good. Her options would be limited, if she were weak. Resolve hardened within her. She’d promised herself a long time ago she would never be weak, never be part of something weak, again.

 

Dameron was eyeing her; her thoughts must be more apparent on her face than they should be.  “So...what  _ do _ you plan to do next?”  Was that sympathy? Sympathy was meant for the useless.  She wasn’t useless. She didn’t need his cursed sympathy, not if she was going to be...herself.  “I mean...I can see if the Wookiees have any bacta patches; your injuries aren’t fully healed, I can tell.  But after that, is what I mean.”

 

She knew, now that she’d had a minute to think.  “There are plenty of mercenary bands that would value my skills whether I have both my eyes or no.  I can join one, low in the ranks at first, and make my way through until I run the place.” That would be easy.  Nothing she hadn’t done before. But…”Usually, though, you’ve got to fight, to prove yourself before they’ll take you.  And I’m badly out of condition.” That admission was made through gritted teeth. And the question after was nauseatingly difficult to ask.  “I’ll need to...Kriff. Will you help me?” Dameron looked confused. “I need to train with someone, to get back in fighting shape. Can you help with that?”

 

His eyes widened, before his face split into a pleased grin.  “What, you want me to train in hand to hand combat with the most fearsome warrior in the galaxy?  I mean, who’s going to pass up that opportunity?” His voice was teasing, with an edge of laughter.  “Are you sure I’m going to be enough of a workout?” That was an entirely disconcerting level of enthusiasm.  Was he joking? She wouldn’t know.

 

Phasma could feel her jaw firming.  “Well, there’s no time like the present to find out whether you are.”  She pulled the blanket off her lap and stood. Well, tried to stand. Her body had other ideas, and the half of the world she could see seemed to be covered in falling snow as her knees refused to obey.  That was unacceptable. A scant few seconds later, she found her arm draped across his shoulders and Dameron’s hand was around her waist. It hurt her ribs, but she made no move to get away from him. Assuming she could.  His curls were tickling her collarbone, but he kept his head turned in the opposite direction and his eyes averted; why? 

 

She looked down at herself.  Oh. The robe had slipped. So what?  Phasma pulled it impatiently back across herself as he spoke, turning his head to look up at her.  “You all right?” She nodded, irritated with herself for showing weakness yet again. He gradually let go of her and she found that she could stand.  Barely. “So maybe give yourself, what, a day before you start training? I mean, it’s not like you just stubbed your toe. Tell you what; why don’t I step out so you can change clothes and see how you feel?”  Just now, that sounded like a brilliant idea. She realized, as she heard him chuckling on his way out of their shelter, that she might have said that out loud.

 

…

 

Stars, Phasma was ridiculously good at this.  Poe waved a hand at her, begging for respite. “Enough!  Can I breathe for a minute? Assuming my lungs still work?”  He leaned over, hands on his thighs. Yeah, they still worked.  But they weren’t happy. “And you, you look...like you’re ready to make a holovid about some ancient warrior queen or something.  This is highly unfair.” He took her in from head to toe. She really did; she was magnificent. The eyepatch just added flair. Not much in the way of clothes, but evidently Kashyyyk had eyepatches in abundance.  How many one-eyed Wookiees could there possibly be?

 

In the time since they’d started, she’d mercilessly pushed both of them.  Calisthenics, physical conditioning, combat training, running; he was probably in the best shape of his life,  and she...was not even close to satisfied with herself. It was in the frowns when he called a water break or a rest; the critical eye she gave herself in the mirror he’d managed to find (it wasn’t easy, Wookiees were not big on self-examination); in the way she’d lever herself up to start again.  She was always looking for more, harder, faster, better. 

 

Every once in a while he could get her to focus on survival necessities.  Fishing, locating water sources, improving their shelter, Poe could distract her with those for a while. He’d tried distracting her with flirting, too; at least he told himself that’s what he was doing.  Poe flattered himself that he was pretty good at it, but she didn’t even seem to notice, like it just didn’t occur to her what he might be doing. Once their basic needs were met, it was back to fighting, getting stronger, getting better, getting back to what she’d been.  That was when he started dragging her to the campfires. 

 

Wookiees didn’t spend a lot of time on the ground.  Their houses were in the wroshyr trees, most of their lives were spent kilometers off the ground.  But stories, traditionally, were told by a campfire, and those meant coming down to the surface of Kashyyyk.  Once a “week” or so, all the elders would gather for a great bonfire (carefully controlled, of course, Kashyyyk might be a rainforest planet, but that was no excuse for being careless with the flames) and tell the younglings all about the courage and loyalty and bravery of their ancestors; some of whom had lived to tell their own tales, and some of whom had not and must be saluted by the survivors.

 

It had started when Poe came back from one of the Fires, a little worse for drink, if he were being strictly honest.  There was some sort of tree sap concoction, he had no idea how they made it, wasn’t totally sure it was safe for human consumption, but what the hell, right?  And the story they’d told that night was one of the best; loyalty and brotherhood and self-sacrifice, the kind of story that had always wrung tears from his eyes and made him think it should really be rendered in song.  Wookiees did not sing. 

 

Neither did Poe, that night; but he had related the tale, dubiously translated from BB-8’s recording and somehow transformed into a half-assed epic poem.  Addik, they called him, the Wookiee hero of the story. His real name had been lost to time, but Addik meant Guardian, and that’s exactly what he had done, so Addik it was.   Phasma had only cocked a superior eyebrow at him when he first staggered back into their tent; but as the tale progressed, he’d caught her reacting physically to the story, her breath quickening at the dramatic moments, even a hint of tears when Addik made the ultimate sacrifice for his brothers and sisters in arms. 

 

A sigh was her only comment on the ending, but as his awareness had faded, blurred with whatever the hell he’d been drinking, he’d felt a blanket being drawn over him and a hand brushing the hair out of his eyes.  And the next time he’d mentioned a bonfire was in the works, she’d made a tentative request to join them. Of course she could attend. He’d just been waiting for her to ask. The local contingent of Elders was happy to make room for the Ghost.  That’s what they’d taken to calling her, BB said, since she couldn’t remember who she’d been. Poe felt a pang at the deception, but only a little. 

 

He signalled to start again. “Okay, you can start trying to cave in my head again any time now.” He thought they’d gradually build up to where they’d been when he asked for a break, but she was pitiless, relentlessly attacking him with one of the wooden staves they’d made together.  Poe was certain that if they’d sharpened them like Phasma had wanted, he’d already be dead. Fortunately caution had prevailed. Huh. He was the cautious one, now. 

 

That would have been hilarious, if he’d had the wherewithal to even draw a full breath.  As it was, Phasma didn’t even pause at the sight of his noiseless, still-breathless laughter.  She just attacked again; silent, savage, and swift. He’d better stop watching her, or she was going to kill him anyway; but it wasn’t easy.  Even a set of overlarge coveralls did nothing to hide how powerful she was. Or how...oh, no, nope, stop, c’mon. He suppressed that thought before it started as her staff cut the air over his head.  Force, she’d practically parted his hair.

 

…

 

Dameron was remarkably good at making her push herself.  He hadn’t once complained about the punishing pace she set; strength training, running across the rainforest floor, combat drills that were something you could barely refer to as simulated; he remained cheerful through it all.  Once she’d gone to a couple of the bonfires, full of stories and liquor she didn’t drink (he did, though, at least some of the time) and easy camaraderie (she didn’t really partake in that either), the Wookiee elders weren’t shy about assigning her chores like any other resident.  They seemed to enjoy watching her swing an axe. So be it. It was all training.

 

Once she’d regained some muscle, Phasma focused on compensating for the eye she’d lost.  She was learning to  _ listen _ .  It wasn’t hard, with Dameron; he was always making some sort of noise.  He hummed while he worked on camp chores, he had an easy, ready laugh, and she was beginning to recognize the sound of his footsteps, quick and somehow managing to be full of life.  That was a nice trick. 

 

In the fireside tale he’d told, there’d been music without song.  It had been strangely compelling to listen to him recite it, and to watch all the emotions that went along with the story cross his disconcertingly open face.  He’d said “Thanks, beautiful,” when she’d put him in bed. She’d liked the sound of that more than she expected, when he said it; but clearly he’d had more to drink than was good for him.  That kind of talk seemed to just be how Dameron was; were all the Resistance pilots like that? Generally words applied to her ran more to “Sir”, “Captain”, “terrifying”, or the always popular “no, please, don’t kill me.”  

 

Studying the small sounds someone made as they went about the business of their day and hearing the tiny noises of an enemy who didn’t want to be heard were very different, though; which was why they were working just now.  “Again, Dameron. Attack from my blind side. And this time, don’t whistle. I don’t plan on fighting fools, so I don’t imagine they’ll announce their presence in so obvious a fashion.” His grin was utterly unrepentant; but at least his mouth was closed.  Phasma turned her back and waited. 

 

There was nothing; not a sound from the hole in the world.  Amazing. He could be quiet when he tried. But she’d been studying him, and there was no way he could be quiet forever.  There it was. The tiniest snap of a branch as he braced his foot for a strike. He’d pull it; he always did, even when she didn’t.  A rustle of cloth as he began to move, a rush of air, and...NOW. She whirled toward her blind side, staff cutting the space between them.  Phasma was filled with triumph; she could still do this, even if she couldn’t see. No one would take advantage of her; soon she’d be the best again.  She pressed the attack, feeling a snarl curl her lip and the old bloodlust rise in her veins.

 

There was a  _ crack _ ; not quite the sound of her axe biting into a wroshyr sapling, but a solid, definite  _ crack _ .  Phasma caught a glimpse of startled earth-dark eyes before they snapped shut and he toppled backward onto the leaf-littered ground where they’d been sparring.  He hadn't made a sound. Just like she’d asked. Oh, son of a bantha. Kriffing hell. She’d killed him. The only person on this planet who even had a language in common with her.  And...the first person in a decade or more who’d been kind to her, for no reason at all that she could tell. Why hadn’t she pulled the strike? Because she’d been too busy enjoying herself, too happy thinking that she could  _ win _ again.

 

Phasma dropped to her knees in the dirt next to Dameron’s prone body and searched for a pulse.  She was unreasonably relieved to find that there was one. He wasn’t bleeding much, and she didn’t think his skull was broken.  It didn’t look as bad as she’d feared. Feared? Why was she afraid of having injured an enemy? Because he wasn’t. Not here. Here he was just a man, and possibly...her friend.  That was a new word for her too. Was that the word that explained the panic she was beginning to feel? Dameron was never this still, not even when he was sleeping. Something about him was always in motion. 

 

This was unacceptable.  Phasma pulled back the dark curls falling down over his temple to assess the damage.  Maybe she had pulled the blow, without even meaning to do it. He wasn’t bleeding from the ears; people generally did, when she’d hit them in the head.  As she smoothed his hair back in place, a hand seized her wrist. He still hadn’t made a sound. Had she hit him that hard? She was starting to miss the sound of his voice.  That was ridiculous.

 

His grip was firm enough, but Dameron’s eyes were still addled as he blinked at her, for a few long moments; then they were filled with their usual warmth, and he smiled at her.  “Hey, gorgeous.” Oh, there he was. She must have been surprised. Otherwise he’d never have managed to pull her down on top of him, and kiss her soundly, before she could prevent him.  At least that’s what she told herself. It had nothing to do with how warm his mouth was, or how good his hands felt kneading the small of her back; right up until she slapped him.

 

“Ow.  Hey! Head inj’ry, here.”  This unnecessary announcement was accompanied by a hand to his cheek and a forlorn look; Dameron levered himself into a sitting position with a groan.  “Mercy.” He held up his hands, wobbling a little where he sat. 

 

The sneer Phasma felt was a much more familiar sensation. She could work with this.  “Mercy? You should know better, Dameron.” She shook her head. “It’s your own fault, really.  You could see, I couldn’t. If you were better at ducking, this wouldn’t have been an issue. Why didn’t you avoid the strike?”  Yes, why hadn’t he? What had he been thinking? Thinking was probably overstating the point.

 

Despite her words, she extended a hand to him, there on the ground, and steadied him when he faltered upon standing, her arm under his and across his back.  He’d added muscle, as they worked together; he was leaner, and harder, than he’d been. Phasma stomped on the treacherous thought. She’d been too long away from the kind of discipline she needed, if she was noticing  _ that _ .

 

When she looked down, there was a dazed smile pointed in her direction.  Well, that was...that did very nice things to his face, and some very disturbing things to Phasma’s equilibrium.  “Why, were you worried ‘bout me? ‘S adorable.” An insouciant grin. She could always kill him later. Adorable, indeed.   “I don’t know...I guess...I trusted you.” Her throat tightened. “Not t’kill me, I mean.” He seemed to be having trouble with his tongue.  “...‘M not dead, am I?” What? His eyelashes fluttered, and his weight on her arm got heavier. Oh, sod it. She hung onto him until he took back a little more of his own weight. Keep talking.

 

“No such luck, I’m afraid.  I most certainly was not worried about you.  I hardly touched you; it’s not my fault you were taken out by a hit a grandmother should have been able to withstand.”  Dameron straightened, looking slightly offended; but aware. That was an improvement. “If you were dead, I wouldn’t have to drag you back to the shelter.”  She patted his cheek. “Stay awake, now. One foot in front of the other. You’re heavier than you look. Aren’t pilots supposed to be...compact?” He was, really; a nice armful.  Bantha dung. Stop it. It was his brains that had been scrambled, not hers. It was getting dark. She’d driven them until the light started to fade. Someday she might have to fight at dusk, after all.

 

He chuckled.  “Now thas’ your fault.  You’ve been workin’ me so hard, ’m eating like a Wookiee.  Oh, no. Not thinking about food ri’now.” He was looking distinctly green; but he mostly kept walking.  Every few minutes, he seemed to forget what they were doing, so Phasma talked to him until he kept going.  Just nonsense, the names of fighting forms and how each one was used with different armaments, and against them; all the ways you could overcome an opponent while unarmed, methods for improvising weapons.  He was humming again. She still didn’t understand why he did that.

 

BB-8 rolled out from their shelter; they’d left him behind to work on the Auzituck.  He (Dameron said the droid was a “he”; how he could tell, she had no idea) emitted a series of concerned beeps and sliding tones.  Phasma couldn’t understand him, but the general meaning was clear. “Training accident. He’ll be all right after a night’s sleep, I think.”  

 

The next sound was positively accusatory, as the rotund droid blocked the entrance to the shelter.  If he’d had hands, she had no doubt they would have been on his equally nonexistent hips. As it was, some sort of instrument was extended in her direction, electricity crackling at the end of it.   “Yes, it was an accident. If I’d deliberately taken him down, I’d have just left him on the forest floor, wouldn’t I?” 

 

Dameron roused where he’d been standing with his arms wrapped around her waist, his head resting on her chest.  “ ‘s’not her fault, buddy. I forgot t’duck. ‘M’okay. Lemme in, a’right?” The droid rolled over to bump against his shins, making soft croons.  “Yeah, m’good. I just need to lie down, ‘n…” His head rolled back onto her chest, cheek burrowing against her. “Hmmmm.” Kriffing hell, that was… that...

 

“Oh, that is very much enough of that.”  Phasma walked them both inside as BB-8 reluctantly rolled out of their path, and lowered Dameron onto his pallet.  Something metal swung against her arm. He was wearing a ring on a chain around his neck. She wondered what the story was there.  “Down you go. I suppose I’ll have to watch you. After all, if you’re out of commission, how would I talk to the Wookiees? I might miss their company.”  She tucked the chain back inside his shirt and sat down on the floor of their shelter next to him, arms crossed, considering. BB-8 rolled over to bump against his belly with a plaintive whistle.  

 

A few pats administered to the droid, Dameron’s other hand snaked out and caught her wrist again.  She could easily have shaken off his grasp...but she didn’t. “Stay.” His grin was wide-eyed to begin with; mischievous and dizzy all at once, his voice wheedling.  “ ‘N case I need you?” It should have been less effective with his eyes already closing, but it wasn’t. She let him pull her down beside him on the pallet. 

 

He was injured.  It only made sense to keep an eye on him until he woke again.  She’d done the same before, assigning troopers to watch each other if one of them had sustained a head injury.  Phasma had always valued her fighters, if only as tools; she ought to have done, she’d trained them herself and she knew their worth.  She chuckled to herself, a soft, bitter sound. She’d trained FN-2187 so well he’d defeated her. Some nights it was hard to fall asleep.  The prices she’d paid, climbing her way to the top, occasionally returned to remind her about what she’d done. But listening to Dameron’s even breathing, his head resting on her shoulder again, Phasma was asleep in minutes.

 

…

 

Poe opened his eyes, immediately regretted it, and closed them again.  OW. What in the hell had he been...no, wait a minute. This was not, in fact, the world’s worst hangover.  His whole head hurt, but very specifically hurt like blazes right...there. That’s right. He’d been unceremoniously knocked unconscious by a woman who only had one eye.  She’d had no trouble hearing him, though; Phasma was certainly a quick study. She was right. He should have ducked. The truth was, just the look of her, teeth bared, lithe and muscled, as she swung with deadly (well, near-deadly) accuracy had stolen his breath.  And, apparently, his wits.

 

BB-8 rolled over with a low, concerned noise.  It wasn’t even words. “Sssshhh, buddy, keep it down, I’ll be fine, just maybe watch the high pitches for today.”  He sat up and reassured BB that he was really okay. A few urgent needs were making themselves known. Wait, where was Phasma?  Poe had a vague memory of falling asleep on her shoulder, that couldn’t be right. A glance over at the other pallet showed the blanket arranged with military precision; but then, she was inclined to do that whether she’d slept in it or not.  

 

A second glance, at himself, was enough to tell Poe he needed to have a wash.  There was a waterfall handy, not too far from their camp; that ought to do the trick.  He grabbed his spare clothes and some soap, and headed for it. He was stopped along the way by a very peculiar sound, like someone beating an immense drum; it was followed by a scream.  What in the Force? He followed the noise, skidding in the leaf-litter, and stopped in his tracks when he found Phasma beating the hell out of one of the smaller wroshyr-trees with her staff and shrieking like a Jakku ripper-raptor.  

 

That...was an impressive vocabulary of startlingly nasty words, interspersed with some more mundane ones. He wondered what that poor tree could possibly have done to her.   “Stupid! Careless. Losing control like that. Control is survival. Control, survive, thrive.” When she switched out the staff for an axe, Poe hastily went back to his original objective, shaking his head. What had she failed to control? He doubted she’d appreciate being seen just now.  He could hear the splinters flying for some distance down the path. When he shucked his clothes, there were a few longish, blonde hairs clinging to his collar. Huh.

 

When he got back to the tent, she was  _ pacing _ in front of it like a caged animal; and she pounced like one too.  “Where were you? Why didn’t you tell me he was awake?” She’d grabbed him, not especially gently, by the back of the head, dragged him into the tent, and was examining the spot that hurt the most.  That last question was directed at BB-8, who was explaining that he’d told her exactly that, and it wasn’t his fault if she hadn’t learned how to speak droid, and chose to spend her time murdering perfectly innocent trees instead, he’d TOLD her Poe was going to the waterfall and he was FINE.  

 

“I thought you might’ve wandered off into the trees somewhere, since you seemed to have lost what little wits were part of your original equipment.”  Her tone was scathing. “And without you and that A-wing you think you’ve got hidden, I can’t get off this godforsaken ball of trees and rain.” She flung herself down onto her pallet.  “I’m almost ready. But I can’t even tell the Wookiees I need a ride off-planet without you.” Kriff. She’d found his mother’s Interceptor; he’d taken it to get here so the Resistance wouldn’t be down any of their slightly more useful ships.  There was a hole in her logic, though. Why hadn’t she just taken it and left? It wasn’t like he’d bio-keyed it; that ship was so old, it didn’t have that technology anyway.

…

 

Phasma was really going to murder him this time.  Dameron had no idea how long he’d been lying there, until finally she couldn’t take it any more and she had to HIT something.   _ Once  _ she’d left the stupid shelter, and of course that’s when he’d chosen to hare off into the forest without a word.  She didn’t know much about Kashyyyk, not nearly as much as she would have bothered to learn if she’d known how long she’d be stuck here.  But between the bonfire tales and the little she did know, she was pretty sure there were things in these trees that would just  _ eat _ you, especially if you weren’t operating on all relays.  And if she were going to be responsible for a death, it had better damn well be because she’d planned it that way.  And hidden it better.

 

Dameron was eyeing her as though she might do either one of those, murder him or eat him.  “Okay, I woke up, like any other morning; and I smelled like a Rancor, so I thought I’d spare you having to share quarters with that.  Not a big deal. I was just at the waterfall. I mean, you hit me pretty hard last night, but I’ve had my bell rung before.” He held out their meager supply of toiletries and a bundle of cloth to her.  “You might want to go, too. I washed that robe you were wearing, so you’ve got something to put on this time besides a blanket.” He smiled at her, like that made sense.

 

She stared at him.  He really did have no idea.  “Last night? You missed a day in your accounting, Dameron.  And a night. This isn’t the next morning, it’s the day after that.” She watched him digest that information.  “Come here.” She grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him over to the mirror he’d found. His eyes widened at the deep blue-purple-red bruise in a neat line across his temple, and the rather spectacular black eye that went with it.   Her own face looked tired, as well it ought.

 

He gave the bruise a tentative poke.  “Ow. Well, sorry.” He was sorry? For what?  It wasn’t as though he’d brained himself. Wait, he’d washed her clothes?  Kest. The longer she stayed in this place, the more her own brains seemed to leak out her ears.  Maybe if she were clean, she could think. Phasma snatched up the bundle he was still holding, grabbed her staff just in case there was anything out there she could kill.  Stars, she hoped there was. Trees didn’t fight back nearly enough for her taste, and neither did he. 

 

As she strode (stomped, if she were being honest) out of the shelter, he said something more quietly than was his usual wont.  She could have sworn it was “Yeah, I don’t hate you either.”

...

 

They kept right on training.  She was definitely pulling her strikes now, though.  Neither of them said anything else about the gradually fading bruise on his face.  Things were pretty routine; at least, whatever routine had become here on Kashyyyk.  The Wookiees found the damage Phasma had inflicted on Poe to be hilarious, and told him it was a shame he couldn’t grow a proper coat; then it wouldn’t be so obvious that she’d vanquished him. Thanks, guys.  Real helpful, that. BB wasn’t sure about the translation for that word; he said it had too many meanings to be sure, and some of them were tied up in social customs and rituals. 

 

At the next bonfire, they slapped Phasma on the back, which startled the hell out of her, and tried to get her to try that tree-sap stuff.  She had the sense to refuse it without any urging from him. “The Ghost is fierce,” they said, “and angry. We like this one.” At least he thought that’s what BB-8’s translation meant.  There was more that BB flatly refused to translate, but Poe had spent enough time here by this point that he was pretty sure it involved the Shyriiwook for “mate”. He had better sense than to mention that to Phasma.  Huh. He was learning to keep his mouth shut, and all it had taken was a woman who could eat him alive.

 

BB-8 was relating tonight’s bonfire story.  It was one of the more tragic ones. Poe listened carefully and gave a basic translation; the little droid would record it so he could give a better one later; Phasma really seemed to like those.  This one was about a brother and sister, practically still younglings at the time of their tale. As in many of the stories, their names were lost to time; the tale-tellers called them Fire and Ice, because they were opposites in every way.  The Elders despaired of them because they never agreed on anything. 

 

Ice chose to learn how to fight with a bowcaster, so naturally Fire loudly touted the virtues of blaster and spear.  Fire loved the mountains, therefore of course Ice loved the sea. They constantly fought, bickering and arguing the days away.  Sometimes this escalated to fistfighting. The Elders delivered many lectures on loyalty, and frequently set them to completing tasks together to teach them how to cooperate with each other.  But nothing worked, until a time of famine came. The siblings grudgingly agreed to hunt together, ranging farther and farther into the forest in search of webweavers, which had grown increasingly scarce.  

 

They’d found them, a whole nest of them.  Something in the air, or the water, or the Force had driven the giant arachnids to gather in their hundreds all in one remote corner of the forest known as the Shadowlands.  When Fire and Ice did not return, the Elders grew concerned and sent a larger hunting party, exhausted and malnourished though they were, to search for the pair. Ice was still alive when they found her, back to back with her brother, bowcaster still in her hand and her bandolier empty. 

 

Fire had been badly bitten, she said, and couldn’t run.  He’d told her to go, to get help and save herself; but that wasn’t how it was meant to be.  She’d told him that Ice without Fire was cold and desolate, that he was her brother and she would never leave him alone, even though he was wrong about everything.  Her own injuries had taken her on the way back to their tree-city. Back to back they’d fought, and side by side they were laid in death, loyal to the very end.

 

Phasma stared into the bonfire as he related the spare, stripped-down version of the story.  The Wookiees’ real version was long and rich with detail; this tale was old and well-loved. Poe could see her frowning as the story progressed.  When it ended, she shook her head, biting her lip as she took her turn feeding more wood to the flames. She looked paler than usual, if that was even possible.  He wondered why, but her expression did not invite questions.

 

There was a mighty roar at the story’s conclusion, the massed voices of dozens of Wookiees shaking the air and the ground.  They lifted their bark cups in a toast; wordlessly, Phasma snatched up a cup of her own and joined them. Apparently she’d decided to try the tree-sap liquor after all.  Poe could have told her it was a terrible idea, but she was a grown woman, so he kept that thought to himself and watched her as she downed it and followed it with a few more. She was going to regret that.

 

Getting her back to the shelter was not without its challenges.  They’d worn a path between their tent and the Place of Tales, though, so at least the footing wasn’t too bad.  That was a very good thing as Phasma was not at all well-coordinated by this point, despite the arm slung across his shoulders.  She tended to tilt and stumble, which was not very helpful, and kept stopping to lean her cheek down onto the top of his head, which was not at all unpleasant, but a little disturbing as her breath sighed down his face.

 

They were nearly back to camp when a blur of grayish-blue fur rocketed down from the trees into their path.  Phasma was amused as hell at the admittedly high-pitched noise he’d made; tachs were Kashyyyk’s native primate, and he hated the sodding things.  Always making off with their supplies, poking their unsettlingly long arms into places and things that were clearly none of their business; and their faces were just enough like and unlike people faces to be weird and creepy.  Laughing at him kept her awake and walking until they got back to the tent, so Poe guessed it was a mixed bag.

 

He pulled a blanket over her and offered to tell the long version of the story, if she wanted to hear it.  She usually did. Not this time, though. Phasma gave an exaggerated shake of her head. “I don’t want to hear this one again.  That’s not how it is.” Her voice, normally crisp and cold, was blurred and full of feeling.

 

“What do you mean?  It wasn’t the best translation, yeah, BB-8 said some of the language in that one is really archaic; but I can do better.”  It was becoming a point of pride for him; it was nice to have a good listener.

 

Impatient, she shook her head again.  “It’s a lie. That’s not how it is between brothers and sisters.  That’s not how it ends.” She was angry. That was normal; but why?

 

He had no idea what she was talking about.  “I wouldn’t know, I don’t have any brothers or sisters, but that’s definitely how they ended the story at the bonfire.”

 

Her eye was closing.  “I did. Once. And that’s not how it ends, not when you disagree: I know better than anyone.  Even when you rise to rule together, when you get them out of danger and hunger and weakness. In the end, they always betray you, and then they have to die.”  She would have been furious to know there was a tear snaking its way down her face. “We never had the luxury...of loyalty.” This pronouncement was followed by a snore.  Poe stood for a few minutes, his throat tight, and just stared at her. 

 

When he woke up the next morning she was already gone, bed meticulously arranged as usual.  He followed the sound of wood hitting wood to find her already practicing staff forms against another hapless tree-opponent.  Her hair was dripping wet, like she’d dunked it in their water bucket before she went, which he supposed made sense given last night’s indulgence.  She’d made off with one of his undershirts, which frankly could barely contain her, and stripped the coveralls down to her waist. She was mesmerizing.  Poe leaned against a sapling and just watched the muscles in her arms move as she gave that poor tree the worst day of its life.

 

The unmistakable sound of Wookiee laughter startled Poe more than it should have. Phasma whirled at the sound, blue eye blazing and staff hissing through the air.  She stopped, though, and...was she smiling? Poe grinned back at her, before he realized that was meant for the younglings who’d crept up behind him, trailed by BB-8.  Well, that was embarrassing. BB explained that the younglings wanted to come and talk with the Ghost, vanquisher of trees, and shakkkyyn (apparently that was what the tree sap stuff was called), and pilots.  Wait, what now?

 

“Hey, I’m right here, guys; hardly vanquished at all,” he muttered before translating for Phasma.  She threw back her head and laughed. Who was this woman, and where was the grim Captain who’d crash-landed on this planet?  And why wasn’t she hung over like a decent person would be? It was unnatural, practically obscene how unbothered she was.

 

“Tell them I’m not entirely sure that stuff didn’t vanquish me in turn,” she said.  Yeah, right. She beckoned at the younglings, and before he knew it Poe and BB-8 were facilitating an impromptu staff-fighting class.  He was dumbfounded. She’d smiled more in the last hour than she had in the entire time they’d been together on this planet. Someone had turned his brain inside-out; there was no other explanation.  He supposed technically  _ she _ had.

 

When the younglings tired, she asked them to tell her about the plants and animals of Kashyyyk, and listened with every evidence of genuine enjoyment while they babbled at her about terentateks, and webweavers, oevvaor, tachs (Poe shuddered; she snorted at him) and arrawtha-dyr.  One of the older younglings, whose name he was pretty sure was something like Rassshkiiyya, was bursting with pride after her first successful hunt; she’d helped bring down one of the arrawtha-dyr. Phasma watched her re-enact the culmination and congratulated her with a slap on the back.  

 

After that, it was nothing but chatter as the children clamored for her attention, and Poe and BB-8 were both kept busy making sure everyone could talk to one another.  The forest floor hadn’t been filled with this much noise outside of a bonfire for a very long time, Poe would have wagered his last credit on it. Which probably had something to do with the bone-rattling roar that interrupted all the fun.  BB-8 gave an interrogative whistle before Poe could even ask him, and a suddenly terrified Wookiee youngling stammered out “T-t-terentatek!” Oh, kriff. They’d just been talking about those; enormous, bipedal beasts, tusked and clawed, perfectly capable of shredding Wookiee and human alike and dining on them when it was finished.  

 

“I thought you guys said they lived in the mountains, what the hell’s it doing down here?  Never mind.” He waved off the response. It didn’t matter. By the sound of it, the damn thing was between them and all of their options, and getting closer by the minute.  There was no way they’d get to the Auzituck to go for help (and anyway, that’d leave the younglings undefended); and the beast was on their path back to camp, and to the tree-city.  

 

A rapid-fire series of questions told him it would, indeed, hunt them if they tried to run, and that the trees around here weren’t big enough to climb to escape it.  This grove was dense and would help keep it out for a little while, but eventually it would just crash and claw its way through. Right. It was down to him and a blaster again.  If he couldn’t kill it with a blaster, at least he could try luring it away long enough for them to escape. BB-8 was clearly not a fan of this plan, as Poe explained it, but he translated it anyway.  

 

…

 

This idiot was going to go and get himself killed for nothing.  Phasma had not previously been aware that you could translate without listening.  A blaster would be no match for the hide on that thing; Wookiees, in the event they had to tangle with them at all, went with spears.  She had a moment of new and painful indecision. That A-wing he thought was so cleverly hidden was in the opposite direction from their camp.  She could just take it and go; all that running hadn’t been for nothing, Phasma was betting she could outrun the beast for long enough. She could reinvent herself, like she’d done before, and build a new life with brains and muscle and ambition until she was in charge.

 

But...she didn’t want to do that.  Wookiee expressions were hard to read, but the younglings were looking at her with what she thought might be trust; and there he was, ready to tackle a monster for them, for someone else’s children. He had to know it would be a suicide mission; even Dameron wasn’t that stupid.  Kest. So be it. “Give me your knife.” He didn’t even ask why, just kept on directing the younglings as high up into the smallish nearby trees as they could go, the smallest first. That should be everything she needed. But first…

 

“Dameron.”  He held up a hand and continued talking to BB-8 and the children.  “Poe.” He turned to look at her; the use of his given name had got his attention.  Well, it wasn’t her fault; he might not know Parnassian languages, but it had still been mortifying to consider addressing him by a name that back in Scyre territory meant “angel”.  How to distract him? There was one thing she’d never tried. “Someone will have to stay back with the children as a second line of defense.” He nodded, as though that made sense. 

 

“I...try not to get dead.”  Knife in one hand, she grabbed the front of his shirt with the other, leaned down, and kissed him with the same thorough attention he’d shown her.  There was a startled, inquisitive sound against her mouth, then a pleased hum. Stars, this man was MADE of noise. It was faintly disappointing when he stopped, as she administered a carefully judged tap behind his ear with the hilt of the knife.  

 

She lowered Dameron to a sitting position against the trunk of one of the trees.  The little droid immediately launched into a tirade; no translation was really necessary.  That electrical implement was being brandished in her direction again. “He’ll be fine in a few minutes; I know what I’m doing.”  A skeptical-sounding beep. “That was an accident. This was deliberate. Trust me, I know how to subdue an opponent. My skills are very specific.  I’m saving his life, you ridiculous ball, and I don’t have a lot of time!” A sorrowful whirr. 

 

Good thing this place was infested with impossibly sturdy vines.  Improvised Weaponry 101; after a few minutes, her staff, and the knife that had been strapped to his thigh, Phasma had herself a spear.  What was that youngling’s name? “Rassshkiiyya…” It was a terrible approximation, but the Wookiee girl turned at the sound. Phasma nudged the droid with her foot where it sat cooing at Dameron.  “Translate.” 

 

He responded with a series of noises she was reasonably certain were highly inappropriate, but rolled over between her and the youngling.  “Take the blaster. It won’t do much, but if it gets close enough try to hit it in the eyes, nose, or mouth. All right? Listen for the noises to stop.  If they stop and I come back, it means I’ve killed it. If they stop and I don’t come back after a few minutes, it means the terentatek killed me. That’s important.  If that happens, it’ll be distracted while it’s...eating. That means you can take him,”, she jerked a thumb at the unconscious pilot, “yes, he should be awake by then, and run for it.  Get help, get up into the trees, get the Elders. Whatever you have to do, to survive. Got it?”

 

The Wookiee youngling nodded, eyes round.  She squared her shoulders and took the blaster, then barked something at the other children that sounded like “ _ Mrowgh ghrrmrowrig!” _ .  The children who hadn’t already started climbing scattered up into the branches, not that trees this small would do them much good.  She turned back to Phasma. “ _ Ur oh.”   _ She had no idea what that meant, but the blaster was definitely raised in a salute.  

 

The children’s descriptions hadn’t done it justice.  The terentatek was a hulking, shambling boulder of yellow-spotted, mottled blue hide.  Small, rodent-like eyes were nearly lost between the thick, wickedly hooked tusks, bared pointed teeth, and the razor-sharp rows of spines jutting from its skull. It bellowed at her, nostrils flaring and head turning as it caught the scent of Wookiee from the grove.  No. She wasn’t going to let that happen. 

 

Adrenaline crackled through her, laced with the natural, visceral fear of death that no sentient being could really overcome.  She felt a pang of regret; she’d enjoyed her time here, with Dameron, and she was woman enough to admit it to herself. A spike of worry about the younglings surprised Phasma; what if her plan was equally foolish?  Well, she’d just have to kill the thing, then. Surging to the forefront was a feeling that was all too familiar before a battle. Joy. Finally, she was facing an opponent worthy of her. She stepped into the path of the beast, waving her spear to get its attention, then set her stance, screamed a challenge, and braced for the charge.

 

…

 

BB-8 was whistling at him, an urgent plea to wake up, get up, stop  _ sleeping, hurry up. _  “Yeah, okay, buddy, geez, it’s not like I have to report for a morning briefing or anything.”  Why was he sleeping against a tree? He opened his eyes to a concerned-looking, furred face. Oh, hell.  Kriff. Sod it, kest, bantha dung...The whistle segued into a series of shocked and impressed noises as Poe emptied his vocabulary of profanity.  BB primly declared that he was not translating  _ that _ for the younglings.  Kriff. Poe got to his feet.  Rassshkiiyya was holding his blaster.  “Where is she? Force, what did she do?”

 

She wasn’t even visible when they found the terentatek.  It was a mountainous heap on the forest floor. The damn thing was even bigger than they’d said; he cautiously circled it, blaster in hand, but it didn’t move.  BB-8’s oversensitive audio verified that it had no heartbeat or audible respiration, and the younglings confirmed that those things did, indeed, breathe if they were alive. Good enough.  He holstered the blaster.

 

Poe couldn’t for the life of him figure out where Phasma could be, until BB rolled over and bumped up against the side of the dead animal, beeping “ _ here _ ” and  _ “alive” _ .  He let out his breath and organized the younglings to shove the stinking thing off of her, searching for a pulse with fingers that were suddenly trembling. He knew BB-8 had said she was alive, but he was still ludicrously relieved to feel the steady beat against his skin. Rassshkiiyya’s hand on his shoulder brought him back to the tasks that came next.  Dashing the tears out of his eyes, he started organizing the younglings to get her out of here and back to their tent.

 

…

 

Someone was singing.  Phasma hadn’t thought much about what would happen after she died; the Force was real, she knew that much, but she’d never bought into the religious claptrap that went with it.  Whatever she’d thought, it hadn’t involved singing. And she was reasonably certain it wasn’t supposed to hurt this much. “She is? So soon? I guess I should have expected that.”  Footsteps approached. She heard the rustle of the shelter’s entrance flap and smelled soap and forest. Fingers were touching her cheek.

 

Someone was singing about whisper-birds, golden in the setting sun, closer this time, but quiet, so it didn’t hurt her head.  Phasma didn’t know what those were, but the sound was lyrical and soothing, like being wrapped in something soft. The sharp smell of bacta tickled her nose, and her hands were held between someone else’s warm, calloused palms.  She thought she’d asked “What’s a whisper bird?” before she slid back into sleep again; but it could just have been that she’d thought it instead.

 

The next time she woke, he was singing again.  Something different this time, about a smuggler and the woman he loved, full of daring and danger.  It was a little ragged, and punctuated by the sound of an axe splitting wood. There were hands in her hair.  A low, inquiring  _ wrrr--ooooo _ ? must be  BB-8, and the answering burble of a growl could only have been made by a Wookiee.  The droid replied with something that sounded like agreement, and the tiny noises that told her he was rolling across the ground.  Beeps and whistles sounded from farther away, and the singing and chopping stopped, replaced by the quick sound of human feet. 

 

Hands, strong and a little sweaty, took hers. She could smell the tangy sap scent of cut wood. “Hey, beautiful.  Wake up and look at me, will you?” It was completely impossible. She did it anyway, and was answered with a smile that made it hard to breathe.  Or that might be the broken ribs. There were definitely broken ribs. “Yeah, there you are.” He needed a shave. And a nap, if the dark circles under his eyes, like bruises, were any indication.  Something was still petting her hair. She tried to turn her head to see, but it was entirely too much effort. 

 

He got the idea, though.  “Oh, that’s Rassshkiiyya. The kids have been coming every day, and they’re taking it in turns to, um, groom you.  That’s, BB-8 says that’s a sign of, uh, the highest honor and affection that a Wookiee can give.” His hand touched her face and came away wet.  “Hey, no, don’t do that. It’s a good thing.” His face was wet too. “That was a damn fool stunt you pulled. What the hell were you thinking? Dying stupidly is  _ my _ job.”  

 

He leaned over and buried his face in her hair.  The next couple of sentences were muffled. “I’m really glad you bungled that part.  Turns out I like you better alive.” That was followed by a few rough sounds that weren’t words.  Oh, my. For her? She ran her fingers through his curls while his shoulders shook a little. She’d been itching to do that for weeks.  Rassshkiiyya was making a soft, approving sound, somewhere between a hum and a growl. Phasma supposed she must be grooming him properly.

 

Her voice wasn’t working as well as she would have liked.  She cleared her throat. That hurt too. “Dying stupidly is no one’s job; though I’m sure you’d have been excellent at it had you had the chance, which is why I didn’t give it to you.  I suggest you slow down on the head injuries, Dameron. You’ll soften your brains, and the last thing you need is to be any more foolish than you already are.” The shaking stopped. There, that was better.

 

He lifted his head to glare at her, outraged.  “...You inflicted both of them!”

 

She chuckled.  It hurt. “And you continued keeping company with me after the first one.  Very foolish, just as I said.” He couldn’t maintain the offended glare; he cracked a smile, then gave her a sort of damp laugh.  Worth it.

 

…

 

Once she could stay awake for more than an hour or two, and stand up on her own, the Elders told him there would be a bonfire, and they’d like the Ghost to attend, she who was once known as Captain Phasma.  Uh-oh. So they’d figured out who she was. He didn’t even try to look surprised. There was no comment on the information he’d withheld other than a stern look and a few soft growls. Apparently he was going to get to keep both his arms.  Poe was pondering the communication he’d found recorded in the A-wing’s databanks. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the contents. He could deal with that later. 

 

The walk to the Place of Tales was slow; Phasma was still recuperating.  He wouldn’t have thought anyone could survive those injuries until he’d seen it with his own eyes; but then, it wasn’t the first time she’d lived through something that would have killed anyone else.  The beast had made extensive use of its tusks, spikes, and teeth in its death throes, pushing its way up the spear she’d put right into its eye before collapsing with bone-breaking force on top of her.  They’d had to send to one of the other tree-cities for enough medical supplies to do the job. The Wookiee medic who’d come to help had just stared at her for several seconds, blinking in shock, before he got around to keeping her alive.  

 

Poe gently installed her on a fallen log and sat behind her to act as a human backrest.   The fact that Phasma tolerated this told him how far she still had to go in recovering. They were getting ready for tonight’s story.  It was as good a time as any. “Hey, listen...I got a communication from the Resistance today. They want to recall me for duty. Apparently General Hux has crowned himself Supreme Leader, and he’s trying to pull together the shreds of what used to be the First Order into...we don’t really know what.”  

 

A sharp intake of breath told him she was listening.  “Yeah, it went all to pieces, after K...Ben Solo defected, you disappeared--the stormtroopers wouldn’t follow him.  Not without you. They say it’s driven him a little crazy.” There was a snort. “Yeah, short trip, right? So...I thought I’d tell them.  About you. That I know where you are, and what you did.” She was shaking her head. “Okay, look. Listen to the story tonight, to the Wookiees talking, and see what you think when they’re done, okay?  Either way, I’m coming back for you.” That was true, he knew, as he said it. Whatever this was, it wasn’t finished. Surely a planetful of Wookiees as a character reference had to count for something.

 

She nodded.  “You never told me…” Her voice was still rough.  “What do they call you? The Wookiees; what’s their name for you?” 

 

“Oh, that.  They call me Songbird.”  It was nice to hear her laugh.  “I think we’re just about ready for tonight’s tale of courage and loyalty.”  

 

She turned her head to regard him solemnly for a moment.  “Courage I know. Loyalty is new for me. You are the first person I have ever valued more than myself, Dameron.  Take that any way you like.” She turned back to the bonfire. A shiver ran up and down his spine. Yeah, no, they were definitely not finished.  He pressed a kiss into the soft skin behind her ear. She didn’t slap him. Progress.

  
That night, the tale-teller said, they would hear the Tale of Addik, the story of a guardian.  It was more of a title than a name, they’d learned. Phasma smiled. It was the first one she’d heard, and she liked the story.  But this one didn’t start quite the same way. There was a rapidly building rumble of speech. The Wookiees were chanting. “ _ Addik.  Addik. Addik. Addik. _ ”  The rhythmic sound built to a crescendo, then died away again to a soft surge, like waves, as the tale-teller waved a hand for quiet.  It gave a strong underpinning to the Elder’s words, like muted far-away thunder, as BB-8 and Poe translated and the Teller started the tale.  “ _ Rowrigghh hrmkuhhrnnn. _ ”  The trees are life, Poe translated. “ _ Hhhummghhra nwurrr rowrigghh. _ ”  Something about trees, and paths, and destiny.  It didn’t translate well, BB said. “ Once a Ghost fell, caught among the trees…”  

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, @flypaper-brain! That pairing was kind of a prompt and kind of a dare. Either way, it was totally irresistible. Thanks, @alicestill and @leofgyth for reading, encouragement, and enthusiasm.
> 
> Further notes: On Parnassos (Phasma's home planet), children are very highly valued; a child is one of the only things she took with her when she left, so it's not as surprising as it seems that she'd enjoy them or be good with them. And she did indeed, among other things and people, kill her own brother, eventually, after she felt he'd betrayed her. Many things about Kashyyyk and Wookiee culture here are made up by me, aside from the grooming and the emphasis on loyalty and courage as the traits most highly valued. The fauna are canon, except that I have no idea whether Kashyyyk has songbirds. :) Most of the Shyriiwook is real, except the Wookiee child's name and the name of that killer tree-sap brew (that same tree-sap is used by Wookiees to make glue, so, no, probably not safe for human consumption, lol) What Rassshkiiyya says is "Up into the trees" and "Thank you".


End file.
